Teutates
by kirsant
Summary: The walls of Hogwarts hold many secrets, some of them benign and some rooted in a deep, dark past. When Harry stumbles upon the latter, his life and soul are shattered, leading him down a path of power, destruction, and sex. A Dark!Harry, Possessed!Harry, Harry/Harem story. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: Smut, Possession, Dubcon (This list might expand as the story goes on).**

 **Mmm...some elements of canon have been altered. Feedback is welcome. Enjoy.**

* * *

The book was old. Harry didn't really know how he'd found it; one moment, he'd been browsing through the library stacks, desperate for anything that might help him finish Snape's essay, and then the volume was just in his hands. Strange things can happen in libraries. Like books appearing out of nowhere.

Harry took the book back to his table. It was worn around the edges, and the binding was crumbling. When he opened it, a cloud of dust so thick was expelled, that it rose up to his ears and prompted a cough, which drew several glares from the study group nearby. "Typical Gryffindor," one of the seventh-year Ravenclaws muttered, but dispelled the dust with his wand nonetheless. Harry ignored the barb, muttered his thanks, and turned back to the book. Now legible, the front cover displayed an obscure runic design, thin lines interweaving into strange, crooked symbols he had never seen before.

They sent a chill down his spine.

Now, usually, Harry wasn't prone to diving into random books that had just jumped into his hand. Besides, he really needed to get on that essay. Snape would gladly assign him a week's worth of detention for missing it, and who cares if Malfoy turned hers in two days late for full marks? Murdered by Snape, equity was long dead in the dungeons. So, what Harry needed to be doing is figuring out how to maximize the diffusion rate of a 3% living death solution.

Instead, he opened the book.

He couldn't really explain why. It was just in front of him and it was so...

So…

"Mr. Potter."

Harry jerked up, blinking rapidly. "Huh?"

"The library is closing." Blocking off the light, Madam Pince's form seemed to tower above him.

"What?" said Harry, shaking his head. "No, that can't be. It's only six."

"It is ten, Mr. Potter," the librarian corrected him. "And if you need rest, then I would advise Gryffindor Tower. Your bed is a much more appropriate place for slumber than a bare library table."

Harry looked down, frowning. Hadn't there been some book? But the details were fuzzy, quickly slipping from his mind. "But–" he began, only to be cut off again.

"The library closes at ten," Madam Pince repeated, tapping a fingernail against the watch on her hand. _Clack, clack, clack._ "Those are the rules."

"Right," Harry said, running his hands through his harry head. "Sorry. I'll just...I'll grab my things."

Under the librarian's frosty glare, he picked up his book bag and hastily made his way out. This late in the night, the corridors were deserted. Most of the lights had been doused, and only a few lonely flames remained, flickering in their scones. They sent long shadows across the bare stone walls, looking crooked and bony. Gusts of wind rattled the windows. Sometimes, they squeezed through the cracks and moaned as they ghosted down the halls of the ancient castle. Outside, far above over a cold, dark, and empty world, a wicked moon prowled the heavens.

" _Harryyy…"_

Harry froze and then slowly turned around. Had he imagined the sound? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but his hand crept down towards his wand nonetheless. Maybe it was Malfoy, trying to prank him? But this didn't really fit the Slytherin's modus operandi. This was something...different. His hair stood on edge, goosebumps prickling over his skin in waves. And why was his heart beating so fast?

" _Harryyy…"_

A lone whisper. Harry whirled around, wand popping into his hand and a spell ready on his lips, but there was no foe to counter, no one to stun. Only the flames on the walls were present, going out one by one.

"What are you?!" Harry yelled, watching the edges of the corridors turn black. The darkness beyond was unpierceable. It was something not of this world, something that should not even exist here, with the living, but be present only in the farthest reaches of space, in that great empty void between galaxies. And like some hungry, ravenous beast, the void was approaching.

Harry turned around, but the same sight greeted him there: lights, doused by the dark. Trapped, with nowhere to go, " _Lumos,"_ was the last thing he whispered before the darkness engulfed him. And then it was quiet.

And then Harry screamed.

 **. . . .**

The next morning, Harry descended to the Great Hall before anyone else. The sun had barely breached the horizon, and most of the students and faculty were still in their beds. Harry wasn't burdened by the solitude, however. Humming some eerie, unfamiliar tune, he heaped his plate with everything the table had to offer and then he wolfed it all down. Eggs, ham, toast, apples, melons...plate after plate disappeared down his gullet with a speed and efficiency that was nearly inhuman. Anyone observing him could have only concluded that the poor boy hadn't eaten in a month! But there was no one to witness Harry's unbelievable display of gluttony. Only the house-elves, down in the kitchen, were dumbfounded at the sudden demand and had to work extra hard to keep up with Harry's appetite. Their trial lasted a full forty minutes.

Finally, and only when the first early risers started trickling into the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry leaned back in apparent satiation and burped.

"Disgusting, Potter."

Harry turned around in his seat. There, winged by her two consistent henchman, was Dracie Malfoy.

Dracie had been an antagonist ever since year one, when Hagrid had taken Harry on his first tour of Diagon Alley. She was pureblooded, haughty, and considered herself better than most anyone else. Harry was a common target for her cruel amusements. She particularly enjoyed riling him in Snape's class, where there was little he could do to respond. In return, Harry took a particular satisfaction in beating her on the Quidditch field.

"I would ask whether or not you learned any manners at home," Dracie continued, flipping her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder in a practiced gesture, "but then I just remembered you live with muggles," She concluded with a tinkling laugh, which might have actually been pleasant had it not been attached to such an unpleasant individual. Crabbe and Goyle laughed too. Harry wasn't particularly certain they actually knew what they were laughing at.

He also didn't reply. He just stared, hard. And there was something so unnerving in his gaze, something so alien and cold that Dracie, who was always ready to add a cutting remark, started to fidget. "Not even worth my time, anyway," she said, suddenly backing away, but her tone lacked the usual bite.

Watching the retreating group, Harry's eyes lingered over Dracie's form. He'd never really considered her anything as more than a rival – an uppity, spoiled Slytherin girl that had it out for him. Now, however…

Now, his eyes roved over her backside with an almost predatory glee. She was fit – the constant Quidditch practices saw to that – and every bit of her perfectly tailored and extraordinarily expensive ensemble only emphasized that fact. There were the stockings (silk, no doubt) which rose to mid-thigh; the skirt that hugged her arse delectably; the blouse that stretched over a pair of pale and perky breasts; the perfume which cost a fortune and smelled like apricots in bloom...she was like a piece of candy, begging to be unwrapped, and Harry, for the first time in years, looked upon Dracie not with disgust, but desire. In his mind, he saw her suddenly spread out beneath him, lips ruby and swollen, breasts free, moving rhythmically as he pounded into her, punishing her for the years of insults and demeaning comments, the nasty remarks, the curses in the corridors, the way she made fun of him and his friends...

His cock was now iron hard. Idly, his hand wandered down to his trousers, and it's uncertain where this might have led, if at that exact moment, Ron hadn't wandered up and plopped down beside him.

"Morning, Harry," he yawned, completely oblivious to Harry's aroused state.

"Morning," Harry said after a moment. His heart was beating fast, face felt flushed. It took several breaths to calm down, which Ron did notice.

"You alright?" he asked, following Harry's gaze, which was still pinned to Dracie. "What is it? Malfoy? She being a bitch again?"

"Ronald!" Hermione's voice sounded behind him. "That's not polite," she scolded, taking a seat across from the two boys.

"Polite or not, true nonetheless," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes. Hermione shot him a glare. "Anyway," she declared loudly, pointedly turning away from Ron, "I was working all evening on Mcgonagall's assignment. I think I went a little over the limit, but I just found it so fascinating how–"

To an outside observer, it might have appeared that Harry was listening closely to Hermione's absolutely fascinating (not really) tale; he was not. Instead, his eyes were focused on Hermione's lips, seemingly captivated by their nimble movements. And the more she talked, the more his expression changed: first casual, it gradually grew in intensity until he was staring at her like a lion would at a gazelle – with feral hunger. The view must have been unnerving, because Hermione quickly became flustered, broke up her monologue, and stammered, "Harry? Is it...do I have something on my face?"

Harry blinked. His features softened, and then he smiled readily, and the change was so quick that it was almost as if he'd put on a mask, albeit a very convincing one.

"No," he said. "I'm just still getting used to your teeth. Madam Pomfrey did a spectacular job with them last year."

"Oh," said Hermione, and looked down. Her cheeks had turned a bright shade of magenta. "Thanks."

"You should smile more," Harry added. "It really suits you."

Hermione fiddled with her hands, then lifted her head and broke out in a wide grin. Harry smiled back – and if the gesture came out a little too wide, neither of his friends noticed.

"Well, if we're all done smiling at each other," butted in Ron, who'd just finished the last bit of toast, "we should get a move on, or else Snape'll have us scrubbing cauldrons or something much worse."

Snape. Harry frowned. Hadn't there been something important regarding Snape recently?

"By the way, that essay was nearly impossible to write. I can't believe you didn't help, Hermione!"

"Honestly, Ron, you really need to learn to do your own work. You can't copy mine forever!"

"Why not?"

Harry groaned. Snape's essay. He'd forgotten all about it.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Snape had Harry slicing potions ingredients for two whole weeks, every day after classes. Over that time, as he cut into the slippery guts and crushed dried beetle skins into powder, Harry tried to comprehend the recent changes in his life, and failed miserably. The issue was that it wasn't just Harry anymore. Something else had occupied his mind, something alien, ancient and driven by a very basic set of needs: hunger and lust.

And it was powerful.

It didn't really understand this world, not yet. It had been born when man was still young, still huddling around fires and telling stories of the gods in the sky. It had been a god too, once; or, rather, man had called it that. Whole tribes had flourished under its dominion. They worshipped Teutates, drowning victims in His name, tearing out still-beating hearts on stone altars. They offered him prayers; they offered him blood. He gladly accepted both.

But with time, all things change. New cultures came and new gods with them. The Roman pantheon eclipsed the deities of Gaul and Britannia, and slowly, Teutates was forgotten. His shrines fell into disrepair; his altars were broken. The river of prayers dried out to a trickle and then evaporated altogether. He slumbered. He slumbered for ages, his spirit form gradually decaying as memory of him was wiped out. Only a few ancient tomes remained that contained a spark of his essence—that were powerful enough to serve as a conduit between him and man, should a capable one be found.

This ritual had been practiced once, by the Celtic tribes. Through blood and sacrifice, they could cleave a man's soul and merge the remnants with the spirit of a god, creating a heavenly warrior, ready to strike fear into the hearts of foes. They didn't last long, however, these victims of ritual. Teutates would consume them from the inside, his divinity breaking the bonds of flesh. The few that survived the bloodlust of battle would perish that very night in severe agony, screaming as they bled from every pore. But those had been mere mortals, unworthy as a real chalice of power. This boy was a wizard. And not just any wizard, but one with a split soul.

That was why he'd been chosen in the first place. A part of another being had latched on to the child's core like some parasite. In doing so, it had created an opening that Teutates could follow. Which, once the book of His name was open and the connection established, he did. Inside, he quickly established his dominance. A body can hold two different souls, but three is too much. The struggle was brutal. Voldemort's essence battled him with a desperate ferocity, but in the end, Teutates was a god, and he feasted upon the soul fragment, tearing whole chunks out of the blackened, acid-like entity, as it writhed and screamed.

Then he assessed his situation.

He was hungry and weak. He had no followers. Once, whole crowds had gathered for his favor; now, he would be lucky if his name could be found on the shelves of dusty archives. In his current state, any direct confrontation might be his last. Therefore, he could not proclaim himself, not yet. He needed a following, people to worship him and offer prayers, which are the sustenance of any god. This would have to be done in secret. Millenia ago, such an idea would have revolted him. He had never shied away from battle. When the Roman gods came, brought by legions of golden-skinned men under proud eagle standards, he fought them with his Celtic brethren upon the slopes of Croagh Phádraig _._ Three days and three nights the conflict lasted. The sky burned with fire. The ground trembled, the seas shook. And on the dawn on the fourth day, when the roar of the heavens subsided, he found himself alone and beaten. The reign of the pagan gods was over.

But he had learned from his error. He did not rush to battle now; instead, he molded himself into the boy's consciousness, hiding beneath a mortal veneer. He did not seek to take direct control of the body – he would not be able to conceal himself then – but instead redirected the boy's urges to suit his needs. Nourishment was the first priority. Any kind would do, for now. Food, blood, sex. The latter was particularly important. Teutates had been a god of war and also a god of fertility. The women he laid with became a special source of power; in return, he was obliged to protect them. The boy had had no experience in that area yet, but with a few gifts that would change very soon.

Teutates was famished. And he would have his fill.

When he completed his efforts, he quietly retreated into the very back of his host's consciousness and fell into a half-slumber. He did not need to be discovered, not yet. The compulsions he'd placed should be strong enough to make the child seek out what he needed. And with every bite he took and every woman he bedded, Teutates would grow stronger until he was ready to take complete control. And then the world would tremble.

Teutates closed his eyes and began to wait.

 **. . . .**

So while Harry did try questioning his new circumstances, he wasn't very meticulous about it. It was more of a half-hearted effort, as Teutates had ensured that the recent changes wouldn't spark too much curiosity. So after several days of listless pondering, Harry simply stopped worrying: not only did his own behavior seem more and more natural as time went on, but there were suddenly much larger issues vying for his attention.

Like boobs.

Oh Lord, boobs were everywhere. Big boobs, small boobs, perky boobs, modest boobs, and boobs the size of ripe watermelons, gods, he noticed them all. They were the world's most succulent morsels, just bouncing in front his eyes, begging to be fondled and fucked. They were everywhere. They called to him in his dreams. He nearly went mad.

In classes, Harry had to ask to be excused, but his trips to the loo, which resulted in desperate wanking sessions, only sharpened his needs. More and more, like some predator assessing herds of prey, he scanned the hallways of Hogwarts. And more and more, his burning, lustful glances settled on Hermione.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Teutates had selected her. She was exactly what he needed: intelligent, loyal, and with a hidden streak of viciousness, Hermione was the ideal candidate for the head of the new religion. She did have an unfortunate tendency to nag, of course, but that wasn't anything a good fucking couldn't fix. Teutates had had his share of women, and not a single one managed to question his actions with a cock down her throat. That would have been quite an accomplishment.

To Harry, who was well under the fallen god's compulsions, this manifested in a burning need for his know-it-all friend. Her smiles became torture. The smell of her hair made him drunk. And at night, when the rest of the boys snored in their beds, his hand wandered down to his aching member and gripped the steel-hard flesh as he imagined her lips circling his cock.

For a full two weeks this madness lasted, and yet not a soul noticed. While most of Teutates' magic was either dispersed or gone altogether, the few lonely crumbs that remained were good enough for three things: controlling his host, offering him some protection, and, most importantly, boosting Harry's appeal on both a biological and magical level. Teutates was a god of fertility, after all. Sex was his domain. And no bushy-haired know-it-all could resist, try as she might.

Hermione was doomed, and she didn't even know it.

 **. . . .**

After two weeks of divine hormone-induced insanity, Harry's moods gradually stabilized. He could think a little more clearly now, although not all of his thoughts were his. Snape's detention came to an end at about the same time, which finally left his evenings free. The first one, he spent with Hermione.

It wasn't even really a conscious decision on Harry's part. It was more like...instinct. A wounded animal seeks shelter, a hungry wolf sinks his teeth into a captured doe, and Harry simply followed Hermione when she announced her intentions to study at the library. This drew a few surprised glances in the common room, but otherwise, no one really bothered. Ron's response was to merely shrug, sarcastically wish them both loads of fun, and then wander off to engage Seamus in a game of exploding snap.

Harry gallantly let Hermione go first through the portrait and then caught up beside her.

"You don't have to, you know," she said, her bushy curls bouncing with every step as they made their way down the winding corridors.

"I don't have to..?"

"Join me," Hermione clarified, throwing him an annoyed glance. "I know you'd rather be with Ron, playing snap or chess or talking about Quidditch."

Harry was silent for a moment. "I spend almost every evening like that," he finally said, adjusting his glasses. "It's high time I did something else. He's not my only friend, you know."

"Oh," said Hermione, and nibbled on her bottom lip. "Thanks."

"Besides," teased her Harry, "someone really ought to check up on what you do in the library all the time. It could just be a cover."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "A cover for what?"

"I dunno," said Harry mischievously. "What if you're meeting someone?"

"Meeting someone? Who would I be meeting?"

"A boyfriend."

Hermione stopped in her tracks. "A _boyfriend?"_ she sputtered.

"A _Slytherin_ boyfriend," Harry added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Hermione turned beet red. "You're being ridiculous!"

"Interesting," Harry said to himself, "So she is _not_ denying having a Slytherin boyfriend."

For that, Hermione promptly smacked on the shoulder. "Of course I don't have any _Slytherin_ boyfriends."

"Any other ones?"

" _No,"_ said Hermione, setting off at a brisk pace.

"Are you _sure?"_

"Pretty certain."

"Because," Harry drawled, catching up, "you might not have noticed, but Nott was staring pretty intensely at you during potions."

It was almost uncatchable, but Hermione's footsteps slowed, just a bit.

"He was?" she asked.

"You really need to get your nose out of a book," Harry said. "You'll notice he's not the only one."

Hermione stopped again. "Are you pulling a prank on me?" she asked, turning towards him.

"Cross my heart," said Harry, and then became serious. "Trust me, guys notice these things. And you're my best friend. How could I _not_ pay attention?"

Hermione paused to mull that over. Harry could almost see the gears turning in her brain. On the one hand, maybe she ought to be offended; but on the other, the idea of being at the center of someone's attention was flattering, and even the most bookish girls (sometimes, _especially_ the most bookish girls) aren't immune to that feeling. As the seconds ticked by, Harry watched the two emotions battle within her, and when inevitably, flattery won, a pleased sort of wolfish satisfaction flashed in his eyes. Hermione didn't notice.

"So he was staring, huh?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. "And who else, you said?"

"You'll have to torture me for any names," joked Harry, wounding his arm around Hermione's waist as he nudged her towards the library. "Didn't we have studying to do? Or are you now content to spend the time chatting about boys in the hallways?"

"Shut up," she said, poking him in the ribs. Harry oofed, but kept his hand in place, and was immensely pleased when Hermione didn't wriggle out of his grip. Her shirt was smartly tucked in, but he could feel her skin through the poplin fabric, smooth and cool. His heart started to pound, sending blood below his belt. That made him quickly drop his arm and distance himself before he destroyed all his efforts with something Hermione wasn't ready for yet.

"Let's go," he said, smiling wolfishly.

In the library, Harry suggested an out-of-the-way nook. Looking at a group of Slytherins that were bound to cause trouble otherwise, Hermione agreed. There, they settled in, spreading out their notes and parchment and quills over the table. In the process, Harry's hand brushed Hermione's several times. He kept this up over the course of the evening: light, innocent touches as they read from textbooks, swapped lecture notes (mostly Hermione sharing hers), and practiced some of the wand motions for new spells, which wasn't exactly permitted in the library, but no one was looking.

Hermione was all smiles. She was like a Christmas tree, all lit up, dimples showing on her face, and Harry suddenly realized that she'd been lonely here. She may be a bookworm, but she wasn't antisocial. And neither Harry nor Ron (her only friends, pretty much) ever followed her to study. She spent whole evenings, wasting away in the library in solitude. Productive? Maybe. Engaging, no.

A part of him felt guilty all of a sudden. Hermione had always been by his side, helped him along and keeping his interests at heart, even when it didn't seem that way (the Firebolt came to mind). And now he was planning to...Harry almost blanched at the devilious ideas in his mind, the ones that would leave Hermione bound to him as an obedient thrall, always eager to follow his word. This little revolt went nowhere, however. Teutates' magic was primed for such obstacles, and it quickly steered Harry's thoughts away from questioning his actions and onto Hermione's chest, where the top two buttons on her shirt had become undone over the course of the evening. Harry's heart picked up its beat again, and his face became flushed.

"Are you alright?" asked Hermione, noticing his discomfort.

"I am," Harry assured her, smiling crookedly. "It's just a bit late, yeah? I think we've done enough."

"I guess...oh, my," said Hermione, casting a quick tempus charm, "nine o'clock! I can't believe...time always seems to drag when I'm by myself."

Harry's lips dipped, just a bit.

"But you're right," Hermione continued cheerily, "we should set off. We can continue tomorrow, that is, if…" she paused, looking unsure of herself, and then suddenly started to babble, "I mean, only if you'd like, of course. I understand that it's not very entertaining, certainly nothing like debating Quidditch, all the Wrinsky feints and Caplint dives and who's better than who, and so if you want to be with Ron tomorrow, that's completely alright, I'll just–"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes?" She fell silent, staring at him with wide eyes. They were caramel, Harry noted suddenly. Caramel with swirls of amber.

"I'd love to. We'll study tomorrow."

"Oh," Hermione exhaled, her shoulders sagging in relief. "Well, that's good."

"Yeah," Harry smiled, and pulled her into a half-hug. "It is."

Hermione wanted to respond with a light gesture, but something stopped her. Instead of just a quick hug, she suddenly found her hands weaving around Harry's back. He smelled...electrifying. It was a tantalizing aroma: crisp on the tongue, fresh, and exhilarating, like a storm in the air. It made her breath hitch, her senses tingle. Waves of goosebumps washed across her skin, cresting over her shoulders and spine. Like a ship in a gale, she was carried away, and her arms unwittingly tightened, nipples pebbling to a delightful warmth which spread through her chest and then plunged down, dipping below her navel in a euphoric explosion of mind-shattering delight. She gasped, inhaling sharply, her nails digging into Harry's back. Her eyelids fluttered. Adrift on an ocean of bliss, she was lost, and when her hips began to mindlessly grind on Harry's thigh, seeking to prolong the wicked pleasure, she didn't even notice.

Harry nearly came.

With her head tilted back and eyes clouded with ecstasy, she was sin on earth. Watching her become undone was easily the most orgasmic thing he had ever seen, and it took everything he had not to act on his urges, not to tear her shirt to shreds, rip off her bra and latch onto that heaving chest…

He knew she wasn't ready. Not...yet.

Soon.

"Hermione?" he asked after several moments, pretending to be oblivious to her state.

"Harry?" Her words were breathless, and her fingernails still ghosted across his back.

"You alright?"

"I'm...I'm…" Hermione stammered, slowly coming out of her daze. And then it was like a switch went off.

Her eyes cleared. Her mind sharpened. And as she registered her predicament, her face flushed the deepest shade of scarlet. She pushed away hastily.

"I'm fine," she squeaked, her hands shaking as she started to throw her things in her bag. "Totally fine. Fine, fine, very, _very_ fine. Just really time for us to go."

Watching her embarrassed fretting, Harry had to bite back a smirk. Fine, ha. How could she be if her _scent_ was in the air? He could _smell_ it. Standing with her thighs pressed tightly together, she was completely mortified, and it was just the sexiest thing ever. Her knickers were probably ruined. _Sopping wet_. And she'd have to walk back in them all the way up to Gryffindor Tower.

Harry helped her pack up, and behind his eyes, Teutates grinned in his slumber.

Not today, and not tomorrow, but soon this girl would be his.

The first of many.

And then he would have it all.

* * *

 **Share your thoughts! You like where it's going? Hate it? I wanna know!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The next few weeks passed in the blink of an eye. The world seemed to change just as quickly. It was like overnight that the days became shorter and trees donned dresses of amber and rouge. Nights were chilly now, and in the mornings, just before sunrise, a mist could be seen spreading over the Black Lake, looking like a white puffy octopus. October came around.

But for Harry, none of this mattered. Unlike other students, he wasn't awed by nature's splendor. He didn't see the sunsets that burned like wildfire, nor the stars that glittered in a velvet sky. The air turned crisp – he didn't care. He saw only her.

Hermione.

She was the fly in his web, unsuspecting and vulnerable. What happened in the library was just a taste of things to come for her, but she didn't know. Well, not at first. Blissfully unaware, she spent the days in Harry's presence, who was always by her side. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he'd display small signs of affection. Nothing major though. Nothing that crossed any lines. Just a brush on the arm or a brief, passing smile. It looked completely innocent; it was anything but. Because while these actions may not have seemed like the pinnacle of seduction, they were enough to keep him in her mind...which is all that he needed. For the more time she spent in his presence, the more potent Teutates' magic became. Bit by bit, it wove its web, ensnaring her in temptation.

And bit by bit, she succumbed to its spell.

Now, this wasn't very obvious. At the surface, Hermione seemed to be her old self: bossy, critical, and a swot to the core. Most people looked no further, and, frankly, that wasn't surprising. She wasn't the easiest individual to befriend or get along with. She also, as her dormmates had discovered early on, had a rather vindictive streak to her character. She could wait weeks to exact revenge on a catty remark. This wasn't a dealbreaker by itself – hell, they were all witches, capable of a sly hex or two – except, this was amplified by the fact that she simply didn't fit in. Truth is, she had never been comfortable around people. Perhaps that's why she sought refuge in books from an early age, which only served to alienate her even further. Odds are, she would have never made any friends in Hogwarts if it hadn't been for a few careless words and a troll in the dungeons… Who knows what might have happened then? Who knows...

But, regardless of the reasons, this meant that Hermione was quite often overlooked. It was ironic that Ron – loud, boisterous Ron – considered himself to be the most invisible of the trio, when that wasn't the case at all. No, people heard Ron, and people always saw Harry, but Hermione…

Hermione was the bookworm. The bushy-haired swot that lived in the library. Hermione was the person that everyone _thought_ they knew, and knowing that made them look no further. So it shouldn't be surprising that the changes in her character went entirely unseen. That no one noticed her long, lingering stares. Or her dreamy sighs. Or that sometimes, when Harry Potter was near, her breaths would grow deeper and she'd shift in her seat, subtly adjusting her thighs.

And, let's face it: even if they did notice, what would they think?

That an ancient magic was corrupting her?

That she was horny as fuck?

Don't make me laugh. And yet such was the truth.

Oh, yes: for Hermione, life had turned into a perpetual struggle of prudence and sin. And even if she could fight this during the day, at night, when the moon sailed high and a quiet stillness set all around, her hands would begin to wander. And, truth be told, Hermione didn't resist temptation all too much.

Ironically, it was her mind – that brilliant, beautiful mind – that led her to her fall. It didn't see anything strange in her emotions and quickly rationalized them away. She was a teenager, it said. She had hormones. It was all perfectly natural. And, her mind argued, as her hands trailed down her body in the darkness of the night, she was hurting no one at all. It would just be her own little secret.

No one would know. Especially Harry.

Because she could never tell him. She could never share that he had turned into her personal haunt. That she imagined his lips, soft but demanding, slipping down her neck to her collarbone. That in her mind, he would press hungry kisses to her skin, sending her heart a-flutter.

That his hands would slip down her sides and then yank at her knickers, making her mewl with need.

"Tell me," Harry would growl into her ear in her fantasy. "Tell me what you want."

"Please," she begged.

"Please what?" His voice ghosted on her skin.

"Fuck me."

Hermione could never imagine saying something so crass in real life, but this was only a vision. Just a guilty pleasure that made her see stars as she pressed a pillow between her thighs. It wasn't real. It would stay hidden, of course, down in the depths of her soul.

Except, for the beast that occupied Harry's eyes, her secret was clear as day.

And as the weeks went on, and her disposition changed, the monster smiled. It saw the flush in her cheeks. The way her breath hitched when he was near and how her fingers trembled. The way she leaned towards him like a flower greeting the rays of the morning sun. She was hopelessly bewitched.

Almost ripe for the picking.

And that deep, dark part of Harry knew, even though the conscious one didn't. It knew...and it waited for its prize.

 **. . . .**

It should be noted, however, that Harry's aberrant behavior did not pass without consequence. There was simply no way around this. Teutates' goals were so different that no matter how well he hid himself, certain things slipped through. And over time, these peculiarities began to draw attention.

Take, for instance, the issue of Dolores Umbridge.

Umbridge, colloquially known as the 'Pink Toad', had arrived at the beginning of the year. Since that time, she had set a record, of sorts, of becoming the most reviled Hogwarts faculty member in the history of the school. Which didn't bother her in the least, of course.

On the contrary, in fact, she was either proud or completely oblivious to this accomplishment, strutting around the ancient halls with an air of arrogance that would have made even the late Salazar Slytherin envious. She was also adamant in shaping a very specific picture of the future, where Voldemort's resurrection was a myth to be squashed and the only defensive magic students needed to know was 'lumos'. Defense Against the Dark Arts had been thoroughly gutted by her machinachions.

It wasn't much of a surprise, therefore, that she had clashed with Harry from the very start. He was the nexus of rebellion. The one who argued against her teaching tactics, continued to push lies regarding the Dark Lord's return, and not only was he constantly disrespectful, but possessed no sense of authority whatsoever. Umbridge had retaliated with numerous detentions, and everyone was anticipating an escalation in the hostilities.

What no one was expecting was that they'd stop altogether.

To Harry, the reason was fairly simple: detentions weren't worth it anymore. The horcrux was gone, the connection broken. Neither snakes nor Avadas haunted his dreams anymore. Only one thing mattered, and it wasn't Voldemort. It wasn't the stupid curriculum and it certainly wasn't anything the Ministry tried to promote.

No, right now, only Hermione mattered, and Harry would be damned if he had to spend an evening with Umbridge instead.

Of course, that's not what the rest of the school saw. To them, Harry had stopped his crusade for no reason. He became quiet, obedient and never interrupted her class. He did whatever work was prescribed without argument.

Hell, he'd turned into the ideal pupil!

Which was, of course, suspicious as hell. Because when had _Harry Potter,_ of all people, ever been the ideal pupil?

As these things tend to go, the whole school knew within a week. Whispers formed in halls: everyone was eager to guess at the cause of this suspicious behavior. So far, the leading theory was that Harry was laying low in preparation for...something. What that 'something' was, no one really knew, but that didn't stop copious amounts of speculation springing up quicker than mushrooms after an autumn rain. Ideas ranged from smuggled Honeydukes paraphernalia to an attack by a fire-breathing dragon.

The dragon idea, given the trio's history, wasn't _that_ outlandish.

Harry didn't pay these rumors any mind, at first. There was always at least a dozen or so following him at any given moment, so why care about one more? But when Fred and George ambushed him after class, he realized that the situation was more precarious than he thought. Umbridge was actively stirring up discontent, and it was only a matter of time before she set off a spark that led to an explosion, which would inevitably lead back to him, because these things always led back to him, whether he was actually involved or not.

Sometimes, being Harry Potter was just goddamn difficult.

Still, he was able to delay the twins by promising to involve them when things 'were ready'. That gave him a little bit of time to prepare. Fortunately, Hermione was already near the edge; all she needed was a push.

Which Harry was only happy to provide.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Despite the recent successes, Harry's plan still faced one major obstacle. He had accounted for the nosy students, the overbearing faculty, and (for the moment) Umbridge. The most towering hurdle, however, was something completely mundane, and could be summed up in only two sentences.

Harry wanted to fuck Hermione.

Harry wanted to fuck Hermione...where?

It was a legit problem. Of course, if he was really pressed, any cupboard would do, but...no, scratch that. Not a cupboard. Anything but a cupboard, for even the thought of one made him green. But that meant he needed a room. Somewhere he could relax, spend a whole evening and then a whole night without being disturbed.

Obviously, the common room was out. In fact, very few places fit the required criteria, as even the slightest chance of discovery was unacceptable. Besides, the animal inside Harry's head would never be content with a ratty blanket and a bunk. Teautates wasn't some paltry spirit or a mythical spook – he was a god! Nothing but the finest silk would satisfy his inclinations.

And, of such a place, he knew. He was close to it, to the stones that had been soaked in blood. The ones where mortals had gathered, begging for divine favor; where the throats of their enemies had been slit, where gods had been called… Those gods were gone now – their strength and glory dispersed on the sands of time, but the stones...the stones remained. They were infused with power, and the witches and wizards that came later felt that power. They used it, molding it to their needs. They built a temple, a temple which later grew into a fortress, and a sanctum, and finally, when the dangers had passed – a school.

Hogwarts.

Harry didn't know any of this, but Teutates' certainty passed on to him. He left the act of finding a place for the last few days, when Hermione was already on the verge and his own plans were beginning to come to fruition. And then, on the second week of October, when the leaves, beat down by a weeping sky, begun to fall in droves, he set out to explore.

It was late in the evening. Waves of rain crashed against the windows, the water freezing cold. Inside, the castle was warm and comforting. Most of the students had already taken refuge in their common rooms, studying or playing or maybe sipping on a drink they'd snuck up from the kitchens, but Harry set out in the other direction. He had his cloak, his wand, and the Marauder's Map, which was currently open, displaying all the people he wished to avoid.

He didn't want to be found.

His behavior, to any outside observer, may have seemed strange. Tossing the cloak over his shoulders, he nipped down two flights of stairs and then turned into a small nook with a seat near the window. There, he waited for an hour, resting his forehead against the glass as the sounds of the school gradually quieted around him. His eyes were closed, and his face peaceful, as peaceful as it could possibly be.

He could feel Hogwarts around him – a stone monolith, filled with magic and mystery. It was his home – well, anything would be a home after the Dursleys – but something had changed in the recent days. Harry hadn't noticed it before. He'd been too preoccupied, too lost in his own pursuits. But now, as he sat at the window, with the cold northern wind whipping outside, he felt...a warmth within the stones.

It wasn't very strong. It was more like...an echo of something grand, a dream slowly fading from memory. It resembled a thread, golden, with fraying edges touched by the tint of decay. It wove throughout Hogwarts, appearing here and there, but often disappearing altogether, leaving behind a cold and empty void.

This made Harry sad. He couldn't explain why. He just knew that the thread was familiar – familiar in the way a long-lost traveler feels, returning to a home he'd left long ago. Abruptly, not even considering how he knew how to do this, he reached out and touched the thread with his mind.

Almost nothing happened. Just a soft quiver – nearly imperceptible – passed along its length, disappearing somewhere in the darkness.

Oddly disappointed, Harry frowned and then quietly withdrew, opening his eyes. On the other of side of the glass, the sky had darkened: a rolling abyss, covered with clashing clouds. The school was quiet, students safely tucked away in their beds. Only a few lonely souls remained in the land of the waking: a handful of teachers on patrol; the house-elves, finishing up their last chores; and ghosts that had no need for sleep anyway.

And, of course, Harry.

Once more throwing the cloak about his shoulders, Harry rose and set off on his journey. The thread was burning bright in his mind, leading him down past the towers and courtyards, the classrooms, the lecture halls, the chambers that had once bustled with life but now stood empty, the hallways that no one entered any longer...

It wasn't talked about much, but long ago, Hogwarts had boasted a much larger population. There had been over a thousand students in each House, and teachers and lecturers had numbered in the dozens. It was a bustling community, with frequent guests and scholars, historians, sorcerers, academics… They came from every corner of the globe: from the blinding deserts of the Arabian Peninsula, the windswept Siberian steppes, the jungles of South America... They came to study, to learn, to teach. They shared their knowledge, gaining knowledge in return, and the halls were filled with their conversations, debates, and laughter. It was a Renaissance of magical proportions.

Now, it was quiet.

There were less than seventy students in Gryffindor these days, and the other Houses fared the same. Harry knew almost everyone's name; in fact, everyone knew everyone's name, so small a community it was. There were no guests either...the Triwizard tournament in the past year had been the first time Harry had seen a foreigner step onto Hogwarts grounds. The time of wonder, of global cooperation and integration, had passed.

Why this had happened – what caused such a steep decline – no one really knew. It certainly wasn't covered in classes. Harry supposed that the wars of the 20'th century had played a role. Wizardfolk were sturdier than muggles, but a firebombing campaign would overwhelm most magical defenses. Dark Lords like Grindelwald and Voldemort had certainly added on to these losses, making the magical world the smallest it ever was...and more isolated, closed in on itself, a shell of its former glory.

Harry could see evidence of this past prestige even now, as he ghosted down the corridors. Thunder rumbled outside, deep and ominous, as his footsteps accompanied the patter of rain against the windows, a lonely dirge for a castle that was more than half-forgotten. He passed through hallways, long abandoned, lined by doors that had been locked ages ago. There was nothing interesting behind them – just empty chambers, stripped of everything of value, motes of dust hanging suspended in the air. First years sometimes dared each other to go exploring in these places, but they quickly learned that everything exciting had been removed. There were some portraits on the walls – they tended to curse in French, Old English or even Norse when they weren't sleeping – suits of armor from the past millennium, a few magical knickknacks, and...that was pretty much it. Just a lot of empty space, much of it barred behind magic, with the odd monitoring charm sprinkled in.

That was why, after getting caught by Filch or Snape here several times (usually during their first year), most students simply put these areas out of mind. The reward wasn't worth the risk.

Which was mostly true, of course.

Even the Marauders hadn't discovered much in these places. Well, they had found some success – a few secret nooks and corners that were dutifully inscribed onto the map – but the vast emptiness had disheartened even then. They had let it be.

But oddly, this is where the golden thread led.

Harry followed it with some caution. At first, he'd periodically glance at his map, but after seeing that the coast was clear, he folded it back up. He wasn't worried about the spells governing this area either – the ones meant to alert faculty to wayward students – as they couldn't penetrate his cloak. So led on the weak, faltering glow, he walked on ahead.

Gradually, as he progressed deeper into the castle, Harry started to notice a change around him. The thread was growing stronger and brighter, twisting around itself like a vine. Soon, more threads began to appear, running parallel to his own. Sometimes, they veered off in other directions and disappeared in the dark. Others replaced them. Harry tried to keep track of how many there were, but soon realized it was impossible: they melded together, joining, separating, and forming flowing patterns in the walls.

Led on by their light, he walked on.

By this time, it was already past eleven. He was in the very old part of Hogwarts, just north of Ravenclaw. The floor was sharply sloping upwards, and Harry found this strange. Ravenclaw was the highest tower, already positioned at the northernmost point; there was nothing above it. The path should have been curving east by now, heading towards the Owlery, which was placed to catch the first rays of the morning sun, but instead, it was still leading him north.

The walls around him were also grander, somehow; the stone slabs that formed them absolutely massive in size. Brass and iron braziers were placed at even intervals along their length. They were lit by dull copper fires, the flames smoky and low. They gave more shadow than light. giving more shadow than light. Harry paused at one, leaning down to inspect it. He could see an inscription in the metal, but the runes were foreign, written in a language he couldn't understand. Maybe Hermione would know.

Thoughts of Hermione occupied his mind for some time afterwards, and he almost missed the moment when the threads sharply turned down a passage that suddenly widened and then opened up into a…

Garden.

Shocked, Harry stopped in his tracks. The storm had passed and the sky was clear. A bright silver moon shined in the heavens, bathing the world in an ethereal glow. Harry could see Hogwarts spreading out all around him: the walls, the ramparts, the courtyards and towers, with tiny lights in the windows – he was, somehow, in the middle of it all, above it all. It made no sense. But it took his breath away.

Dazendly blinking, Harry tore his eyes away for a moment and inspected his immediate surroundings. His first impression had been spot on: he was in a garden, and an old one at that. It had a very simple design: circular, with four paths that converged at a stone fountain in the middle. Stone pillars, many crumbling and covered in clinging vines, lined the pathways. Wild rose and thornberry grew between them, but many of the plants were either dying or dead, their fallen leaves strewn across the ground. A heavy scent of decay hung in the air.

But, despite the depressed surroundings, Harry also sensed a sort of wonder. The golden threads that he had followed were practically everywhere: infused within the stones themselves. They flowed through the garden, forming a bright clump in the middle, right at the fountain, which Harry now noticed wasn't a fountain at all...but an altar. It consisted of a central dais, surrounded by a series of bowl-like objects, connected by watercourses. Harry had never seen anything like it nor could he fathom its purpose.

At the edges of the garden, placed according to the sides of a compass, were four small, yet elegant structures. Each was highly distinct from the others, but every one conveyed a sense of power and admiration. Harry felt his goal was in one of them.

However, he didn't rush towards them. Instead, he carefully observed his surroundings. His confusion was steadily growing. He was obviously still in Hogwarts, but this place should have been seen from every tower. Baffled, he took out the Marauder's Map. Perhaps that could help him place his location. But the Map, ever so faithful, provided no answer. Harry scanned it meticulously. He frowned. He could see the students in their beds, Filch down in the dungeons, Snape patrolling, but his own name...no, his own name was absent completely. But how..?

"Your father never made this far, Harry."

Harry froze. He knew the voice. He must have wandered right past him, struck with awe at the sight of the garden. Harry slowly turned around. "You know about the map, Headmaster?"

Just five feet away, Dumbledore smiled lightly. He was sitting on a low stone bench, one of the many that were spread throughout the garden, and seemed completely at ease. "James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter," he said in a reminiscing tone. "Such troublemakers. Have a seat, Harry. I'll tell you about them."

Dumbledore waited until Harry settled down next to him and continued, "Indeed, the most mischievous bunch. I caught them once with a strange bit of parchment. It was blank when I confiscated it, but the magic was palpable. An ingenious bit of work, I must admit. I don't think anyone's mapped Hogwarts as well as they did. But...not here. Few come this far." Dumbledore trailed off, his words ringing softly between the ancient stones.

Harry let them fade. He was still trying to make sense of everything that was happening around him. "What is this place?" he finally asked.

"This is the heart of Hogwarts," Dumbledore replied readily. "The place where it all began."

Harry turned his head, frowning.

"The place where the four founders came together," Dumbledore elaborated, noticing his confusion. "Where they decided to build a school, where they held their first classes. The castle came later, but you can see its origins, the four original houses." Dumbledore waved his hand, pointing at the four buildings.

"Gryffindor," Harry suddenly said out loud, looking towards the one at the east. He wasn't sure what made him say that, but it felt...right.

Dumbledore looked pleased. "Indeed. Built to face the rising sun as a representation of its original element. Opposite of it, Slytherin. Then Hufflepuff to the south, and Ravenclaw to the north."

"Fire, water, earth, and air," recited Harry all of a sudden.

"Very good," Dumbledore said. "I see Professor Binns is still managing keep some students awake in his classes."

Actually, Professor Binns did absolutely nothing of the sort; Harry's knowledge came directly from Hermione's frequent impromptu lectures. Harry, however, tactfully decided to keep that fact to himself and asked something else instead.

"Why 'original element'? Magic isn't based on the elements. We don't call to fire, or water or air – we create or control it. The elemental connection is purely allegorical, is it not? Meant to signify the differences in the Founders' personalities?"

Dumbledore stared at the center of the garden, at the altar which towered over the other ruins. "Is it, in a way," he said, finally. "But it is also not. Back then, Harry, magic was quite different. It was much closer to its roots. More raw. More dark. More powerful. Only working together, were the founders able to harness its strength, to use it for their own purposes."

Harry glanced down at the golden threads. He wanted to ask about them, but something stopped him. Instead, he said, "But then they split apart? Because of Slytherin's views?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "There are few records of that time. Salazar Slytherin's opinions on education may have played a role, or they may have not. I do not know." He glanced down, nodded, almost to himself, and then his lips quirked up in a mischievous smile. "But I do know that once," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, "the four founders lived together in harmony. Do you want to know when that changed?"

"When?" asked Harry.

"When the Fire Nation invaded."

"The who invaded?" asked Harry.

"No, Harry, they were never a large enough cultural phenomenon for that."

Harry blinked several times. It was at times like these that he wondered if Ron was actually right, and Dumbledore _had_ gone a bit mad in his old age.

The older wizard looked at him and chuckled. "You must pardon my weary attempts at humor, Harry. I fear I may have fallen behind the times."

He didn't add anything else, and Harry didn't really know what to say. Instead, he just sat, listening to the wind whisper through the brush.

"May I ask…" he suddenly broke the silence several minutes later.

"Yes?"

"Why do you come here, Headmaster?"

For a brief moment, a trace of heavy sadness flashed through Dumbledore's eyes, but then he smiled and answered, "It's a beautiful place, Harry. And very secluded. Sometimes, a man needs to spend time by himself...or with someone he loves."

Harry's head snapped up, Dumbledore was looking down, searching for something in his pockets, and didn't seem to be aware of the effect his words had elicited. Deep in Harry's soul, Teutates shifted anxiously. The mortal's words were disturbing, too close to his plans for comfort. What was this old man hinting at? Did he know, did he suspect? Or was he just an old fool, playing with powers he knew not? Teutates cursed his state. He couldn't fight, not now, not when he so weakened. He would have to wait and see where this lead; there was no other option.

"So the founders built all of this then?" Harry finally asked to keep the silence from stretching.

"They built the school," Dumbledore answered, still patting at his robes. "The Garden...that was here before them. It's very old."

"It does look that way," Harry agreed, looking at the unkept expanse. "Why is it like this? Why haven't you...cleaned it up? FIxed it?"

Dumbledore stopped moving abruptly. "I can't do that, Harry."

"You can't?"

"No," Dumbledore answered gravely. "It is not for me. Funny how life works, isn't it? I am the Headmaster of this school, and yet I do not hold the keys to its heart. I am merely a guest here, and if I tried to impose my will, well then I would find my welcome very quickly revoked."

Harry didn't really understand what Dumbledore meant by that, but the certainty in the his words was unmistakable. "So, you can't even fix anything here? You're forced to see it like it, lying in ruin?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "But maybe...maybe...that is where you come in. A fresh generation! Ah!" He suddenly exclaimed, pulling a small packet out of his robes. "Lemon drops! Would you like one, Harry?"

"Err," Harry answered.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore quickly pushed a few into his hand. "And just in time. Look!" Following his gesture, Harry glanced up at the sky. There, between the clouds, a star was falling. No...not a star, but Fawkes, swooping down on the eastern wind. "I fear she's come to remind me of my duties, Harry," Dumbledore said, carefully keeping track of the phoenix. He waited till she was low, and then, at the last possible moment, threw up his arm. Fawkes screeched. Banking down, she thrust out her wings in a single movement, arresting her flight and landing in a crown of fire, wreathed in both shadow and light. Waves of energy rolled off her form, soaking the ground like a rainstorm. Harry was frozen, awed the brilliant display. All around him, golden threads had started to shimmer brightly. They were dazzling and bright, and, like flowers after a long drought, they stretched eagerly towards the Phoenix, drinking the power she shared.

"Quite something, isn't it?" Dumbledore asked, and Harry's eyes snapped back towards him. But Dumbledore wasn't looking at him or the golden threads around...he was focused on Fawkes, carefully running his hand through her feathers with a fond look. The flames coating her body didn't seem to trouble him at all. "Feel free to explore, Harry. Invite your friends. As I said – a new generation! Good night, Harry!"

"Good–" Harry began, but Dumbledore was already gone. He had disappeared in the blink of an eye, and only a dozen sparks remained in his place, lazily floating down. "–night." Harry finished with a frown. "I thought you couldn't apparate in Hogwarts," he muttered to himself, but the thought was quickly forgotten. The moon was high, it was late, and Teutates' magic was pushing him forward, past the garden and into the houses of the founders. The stones had made good on their promise.

Popping one of Dumbledore's lemon drops into his mouth, Harry set down the path. His gait was brisk and focused – but on his lips, lit by the moon's mercurial light, there played a devilish smirk.

His task was nearly complete.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

She woke just before morning. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she was still at rest, lost in those distant, mystical realms that tease us in our slumber. But, sleeping or not, her eyelids suddenly fluttered, softly and fragily, like a butterfly drying its wings. She sighed, her lips parted under the silver rays that snuck through the window. The moon glided just above, winking in a playful way. It knew what came next. It had been a frequent observer.

It didn't have to wait long.

The girl's arm moved, just a bit. It slipped under the covers, pushing them down enough to expose the peaks of her wanting breasts. Her nipples were small and dark. She teased one between her fingers, bringing a rosy flush to her cheeks.

She'd been doing this every night for the past several weeks. She'd done her best to resist, at first...a resistance which had quickly crumbled before the warm, bubbly feelings in her chest...and the hot, aching one between her thighs. Already, she she could feel how wet she was, how lustful. And there wasn't a single doubt in her mind. She needed…

She needed him.

She needed his arms to cup her shoulders; she needed his eyes to stare into hers...and, desperately, she needed his cock. She imagined it poised at her entrance, teasing her parted lips. She begged him, in her mind. He only smirked in response. He knew she was his, and she knew that too, and that made her feel...happy.

"Please, Harry," she whispered – maybe in this world or maybe the next.

He looked at her seriously and nodded.

She imagined him filling her then, slowly, pushing her muscles apart. She gulped, breathing shallow and quick. He would be the first there. The only man to know her, to have her, in such a way. And it was that feeling – of possession and belonging, of being his first – that thrilled her to no extent. He would lay his claim...and she would let him.

She was on the verge now. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her hand moved between her thighs, a pale imitation of the flesh she yearned for, the thick, hard length she pictured in her mind. She could feel it, sinking, sinking into her depths as he grunted above. He was moving faster now. He was rough. He pounded into her, taking her like a man uncaring for her pleasure, and yet providing it nonetheless. He gripped her breasts, squeezing them roughly, making her whimper in delight. She couldn't move at this moment. Couldn't breath. Her mind was going blank, waves of pleasure surging through her core.

"Hermione," she heard his voice in his ear, and it made her gasp. It was Harry's voice...but deeper somehow, more primal. Hungrier.

"Yes," she mewled desperately, twisting her thighs together. "Yes, please. Yes. Yes."

He was surging above her, pushing her over the edge. "Please," she begged him again, watching him through half-lidded eyes. There was a smirk on his face, a dominant, hungry smirk that seemed more fit for a predator that had finally conquered its prey. "Please," she tried again, because she couldn't take it anymore. She needed release. She needed for him to…

Harry's lips tipped up, his eyes cruel and yet somehow comforting at the same time, and, finally, he obliged. In one strong, smooth, fluid movement, he thrust his hips into hers, plunging deeper than ever, and her mind went blank.

It was bliss. An explosion of ecstasy that rocked through her core, stronger than a million spells. She trembled under its power. She shook. She gasped for air, her fingers digging into the covers of her bed as she imagined his seed spurting inside her. He was filling her, declaring to the world that she was, for now and ever, completely, totally his.

Slowly, the rush subsided. The rapture faded. Her breathing returned.

The girl extracted her fingers. They were wet, leaving a musky scent in the air. It was hers and that made her smile, because he would sense it soon. He would know how she smelled and tasted...he would be privy to it all.

The girl sighed again, happily. During this whole time, her eyelids had never once opened, leaving her deep in her fantasy. If it was a fantasy, that is. Maybe it was something more. Something that already happened, or something that would happen yet. She didn't know. And it didn't worry her. Because why worry when you are filled with bliss?

The girl turned, pulling up the bed's covers in her sleep. Only a naked shoulder remained, exposed to the cool night air, looking like marble in the moonlight.

The moon still floated above, but just as sleepy. It was tired and it, too, wanted to rest. Perhaps tomorrow, it would get another glimpse of the drama unfolding below. Perhaps…

The girl smiled, and the moon went to sleep. It, too, had dreams of its own.

And they were just as beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Why does she even keep them around?"

In order to answer, Hermione had to stand up on her tiptoes. The parapet on this side of the castle was tall and the aged stone, parted by defensive gaps called crenels, came up all the way to her chest. Using her hands to steady herself, she carefully leaned through the nearest one and then glanced down, taking a moment to study the sight below. Standing a few feet away, Harry watched her sharply. He hated the way her Hogwarts robes concealed her figure. He kept glancing up, to her hair, which tumbled every which way from the sharp gusts of wind. It came from the north, crisp, so crisp that it made his eyes water, and it carried up the smells from the kitchens: smoke from wooden stoves, hot pumpkin pies, cinnamon and spice.

Harry was full. He had eaten heartily at dinner, but the food and drink could not diminish the hunger in his soul. It lingered, ever present, as wide and black as the ocean, tempted by yesterday's travels. He made certain to keep it at bay, for now. He knew this wouldn't last. There would come a time, soon, when he would let his defenses crumble, satiating his thirst. But for the moment, he needed to be patient; to watch and wait.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

Hermione's tone was belligerent. She hopped down from her perch, tugging her hair behind her ears in a brisk movement. She looked annoyed and that annoyance only grew when the wind made her efforts fruitless; with a drunken roar, it crested sharply, whipping her hair back, and Harry imagined that it would look just like that strewn over a pillow in the morning: all wild and free.

"Obvious?" asked Ron, the words dispelling the luscious image Harry had conjured. He felt a tick of anger at this interruption, but showed no sign.

Hermione's lips flattened into a thin, disapproving line. "Yes, obvious. That means self-evident. Transparent." She cocked her head and continued to list off synonyms, driving home the mockery. "Clear. Easy to under—"

"I know what 'obvious' means," Ron snapped.

"Then why'd you ask?" She retorted with a catty inflection. Harry quietly wondered where she'd picked it up: was it something girls copied off one another, practicing in groups and before mirrors or did it come to them naturally, like tits? He then shook his head. Now wasn't the time to be distracted; he had to stay focused, sharp. While his friends were busy arguing, he took out his wand. It was necessary, he thought; while it was good for them to blow off some steam (Hermione's emotions in particular had been volatile since morning), he didn't need an actual row. He had plans for tonight, and she was the lead role.

"Two weeks," Ron seethed. "Two weeks you've been off, but today's been a real gem! You know, you've been insufferable since morning, Hermione, bitching about _every_ tiny little thing—"

" _Oh, I've been bitching, have I?"_ she growled, reaching for her wand. " _I'll show you bitching, I'll—"_

 _BANG!_

With a loud noise, Harry's wand jolted, shooting off a thick gooey gray mass straight into the middle of Ron's chest. It hit him with a loud _smack,_ spreading all over the front of his robes. Ron and Hermione froze. Their argument forgotten, they stared at each other for a second, bewildered, and then turned to Harry. He awkwardly put away his wand.

"Mmm," he said.

"What the fuck, Harry?" The mass was slowly oozing down Ron's chest as he spoke. It had tentacles, and they looked disgusting.

"Um, I wasn't aiming for you," Harry replied. It was a little embarrassing to admit, but he truly _hadn't_ intended for anything shoot out of his wand at all. It was just that the image of Hermione's hair spread over a pillow had popped into his head again just as he was finishing his spell, and things had sort of… happened.

"What the fuck?" Ron said again. "What is this stuff?"

"Don't...don't touch it!" Hermione cried out. "Here, let me help. It's just...jello. I think."

"Yes," Harry quickly nodded. "Jello. That's it, exactly. Jello."

" _Jello?_ " Ron asked. "You expect me to—Oi! Watch it!" He broke off as Hermione stabbed him with her wand.

"Sorry," she said. "But it's all gone now. See?"

"Oh, guess it is. Thanks, Hermione."

"You're welcome," she replied, in a quiet voice. The anger from several minutes ago was gone, and without it Hermione looked vulnerable and afraid. She bit her lip. "And I'm sorry for snapping at you, I've just… I guess the last weeks have been stressful."

"Ah, bollocks, Hermione, its fine," Ron waved his hand and shifted, in that awkward teenage fashion that is so common when it comes time to apologies. "Just tell me why you think it's obvious. Cause I don't see it. An' I bet 'Arry doesn't either."

"Doesn't see what?" asked Harry. He was pleased with the way this confrontation had gone; Hermione's anger had been vented and, for a moment, he'd been able to glimpse behind her veil of self-confidence, see the uncertain girl within. In a couple hours, that innocent girl, her eyes flush with desire, would be bouncing on his cock. He clenched his fists in anticipation.

"Here," Ron, clueless to his dark and lustful thoughts, waved him over. "Look there, near the wall."

Harry did as he asked. When he leaned through the crenel, the view below opened into one of the castle's many courtyards. There were plenty of them in Hogwarts, dotting the grounds east to west. They ranged widely; from quadrangles that could fit the entire student body to much more private enclosures. This one was on the smaller side, almost cozy, populated by a single stone bench, two apple trees, and three students cloaked in green-hemmed robes. It didn't take much to recognize them: Harry could identify Crabbe and Goyle even with his eyes closed, and Dracie always made it a point to stand out anyway. Today, her usually demure robes were the spectacle of chic, her silver-blonde locks pinned up with a pair of emerald-tipped dragonbone hairsticks.

"Why," demanded Ron, still pointing at the group, "are those three friends with each other?"

Harry found the question confusing. He frowned. Hermione seemed right here: it _was_ obvious.

"...Because they always have been?" he answered.

Ron looked down and nodded wisely. "Ok. But _why_? Crabbe and Goyle I get, they're two sides of the same dungbomb, but _Malfoy?_ Harry, what's the connection? She has nothing in common with them. Think about it. She's different. Not in a good way, I mean, but they're basically trolls, and she's...she's—"

"Careful, Ron, or it might sound like you have a crush," Hermione, who had recovered from her moment of weakness and was now standing behind them with her arms crossed, snidely tossed in.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I'd rather kiss a newt than Dracie Malfoy. Besides, her father's probably got a dozen protective spells on her knickers anyway, with her being the sole heir to the family and all that."

Harry turned just in time to see Hermione's brows furrow and her lips turn down into a frown. "How disgustingly patriarchal," she stated, adding quickly: "And almost incestuous too."

"Don't tell me you feel bad for her?" Ron asked.

"No, but it's a matter of principle. It's a woman's body, a woman's choice."

"He's just looking out for his daughter," Ron countered. "You know how many blokes would want a bite at the Malfoy fortune?"

"Well that doesn't give him the right—"

"All I'm saying is that it could take just a single potion. Or think about Lockhart. Jeez that was a creep. And with his mind magic! He could have been screwing half the girls in the school and they wouldn't even remember it! Say, didn't you have a crush on him?"

Harry almost snorted, but kept his thoughts to himself. He suddenly found himself intrigued by Ron's question. What had he seen that Harry couldn't? And what did Hermione know that they were both missing? Letting the argument fall to the side, he focused on the view below.

His first conclusion was that Dracie was bored. It wasn't a particularly difficult conclusion to come to; all it took was a single glance at her face, which displayed a unique mix of resignation and hopelessness. She had surrendered to her situation, surrendered so completely, she was even slouching. Anathema to the Malfoy upbringing, no doubt. What would Papa Lucius say?

The cause of her frustrations wasn't difficult to detect. It bore two names: Crabbe and Goyle. As opposed to Malfoy, they were practically bursting with enthusiasm; in fact, Harry could hear the echo of their shouts even here, up high. They were doing something strange… Harry focused…and slowly felt a grin crossing his face. Crabbe and Goyle, as it appeared, possessed surprising depths of artistic talent.

"A fair pair of self-portraits, if you ask me," noted Ron, breaking away from his argument for a moment.

Harry chortled. Dicks! That's what Crabbe and Goyle were drawing: two giant dicks on the wall! And poor Dracie, who probably hadn't uttered the word 'dick' in her life (albeit plenty of other nasty things), was forced to watch, although Harry didn't quite understand why.

"You see what I mean?" Ron asked.

"Not yet," Harry said, and focused again. It was a little bit difficult, for as much as he tried, his gaze kept gravitating towards Dracie's slim figure. Oh, she was a piece of candy, indeed. Harry felt a tightness in his pants; a hunger that rose in his chest. It was the way Dracie dressed, really: demure, conservative, with a primness that begged to be ravished. How satisfying, he thought, it would be to wipe the haughtiness off her face, spoil her innocence, make her squirm, and whimper, and beg—

"How can your sister's virginity be of any matter to you?!" Hermione's voice suddenly intruded into his thoughts. She was still arguing with Ron.

"Look, it's a question of dowry, alright?" Ron answered. He was on the defensive. "You know, we can't exactly… so mum tasked me and Percy—"

"Your. _Mother. Tasked._ _**You?**_! What century is this?! And dowry?! Did I wake up in Arabia today?! What would you give for her, three goats and a cow?—"

"No, traditionally it's a house-elf—"

"A _house-elf?!"_ Hermione began grinding her teeth.

Harry shook his head. The argument was ridiculous to him. Consent was incompatible with natural law. An oxymoron. There were only two forces in this world: the strong, who took what they pleased; and the weak who gave it. Voldemort understood this. Even as a child Tom Riddle had sought out power, power at the cost of his humanity, but it had benefited him well. If Harry wanted to protect himself—as well as the ones he cared for—then he would need to challenge Tom. Beat him at his game. And the quickest route was to feed the power in his heart; the one that grew stronger with every crumb of food and drop of drink; that made him ache for the women that surrounded him, Hermione first on the list.

Harry's lips, unseen by his friends, stretched out into a feral grin. He cast a quick look backwards, watching Hermione argue with Ron.

 _It will happen tonight._

He felt a perverse sort of satisfaction at the thought. Knowing that she was standing there, so untouched, so innocent made his heart pound. Because in several hours, what would remain of that innocence? Nothing. She would be his, a willing, eager, corrupted thrall, squirming until he'd fuck her.

At that moment, Hermione raised her eyes, making Harry glance away. He didn't want her to read his expression; it might turn her skittish, and he didn't need that. He breathed in the evening air, letting his urges settle. The sky above clashed in color. To the west, the setting sun lit up the horizon like wildfire. In the east, darkness loomed. Harry welcomed it with a smile. Darkness was his friend tonight, his ally.

A shout from below drew his interest. He leaned over the wall and began to observe once more.

After a few moments, he chuckled. Crabbe and Goyle, it appeared, had been trying to animate their artistic creations, but made a mistake in the process. Now they were surrounded by swarms of flying...slugs? Cockroaches? Something bitey, it looked like. Dracie was already on her feet, wand waving frantically. Honestly, she was the only hope for the group. Despite their tensions, Harry to admit she was a competent witch, even talented in some areas. And besides, Crabbe and Goyle's chances of undoing their magic were the same as a hippogriff's at winning the World Cup. In fact, Harry wasn't even sure how they'd managed a summoning spell in the first place; it wasn't exactly easy magic, and they were dead bottom of their class. Really, all they cared about was food. Why did Dracie even hang out with them?

With a rueful sigh, Harry realized he had come to the same conclusion as Ron. The only reason it hadn't arrived sooner, was because the Slytherin group had been together for so long that he'd never questioned their motives in the first place. It was just a part of Hogwarts, like ghosts in the corridors, cackling portraits, or that the gameskeeper had once tried raising a dragon in his wooden hut.

"You see now?" asked Ron, who had ended his argument with Hermione and settled next to Harry to watch Dracie begin smacking her goons.

Harry nodded.

"Finally!" Ron exclaimed, turning to Hermione. "What did I tell you?"

Standing with her arms crossed, Hermione appeared to be judging them, which she probably was. "It's because you two don't _read._ Honestly, how hard can it be to open a book—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted with an odd inflection, which had a rather profound and puzzling impact. Hermione, on the verge of one of her favorite lectures—Harry and Ron's abysmally poor interest in education and self-improvement (self-improvement focused on the written word, of course)—suddenly choked, went bright red, and started to cough, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Hermione?" asked Ron, looking bemused. "You okay? Maybe you really ought to go see Pomfrey—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she waved away his concerns. But her expression told a different story. She was flushed, breathing rapidly, and her eyes darted everywhere but in Harry's direction, as if she was staunchly avoiding him. Now what could have caused such a reaction, Harry mused to himself.

"So, it's a really simple answer, really," Hermione continued after a few moments. " _I_ figured it out in our second year, I think, when I took a few extra assignments from Binns for some bedtime reading. And when you think about it—"

"Hermione!"

"Fine!" she huffed, crossing her arms. "What do you know about bonds?"

Harry shrugged—the word was new to him—but the essence of the fallen god shifted slightly. Teutates, half-dreaming, became curious. Ron, meanwhile, shook his head. "Bonds haven't been used in centuries. That doesn't make sense."

"Oh?" Hermione raised an eyebrow. "So what's your theory then?"

"Ugh...they're fucking each other?"

Hermione groaned, but Harry picked up a faint blush on her cheeks. She was, again, quite pointedly not looking at him—although possibly because she was just fully absorbed by glaring at Ron. "I won't even dignify that with an answer," she growled, and continued pointedly. "Bonds are a medieval practice. They became commonplace around the High Middle Ages, just around the time of the crusades. But the roots go deeper, of course. Some theories have bonding spells predating magic as we know it, hearkening back to a time of antiquity when godlike creatures roamed the Earth. Although even the term 'gods' is a matter of academic debate. Certain scholars believe that the extensive mythology surrounding supernatural beings is only apocryphal in nature and rooted in superstition, which, as you know, both witches and wizards are highly prone to—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted her again, because this could go on forever. He'd never voiced this, but he had a suspicion that Hermione liked to listen to herself talk. In the future, he'd need to educate her out of this habit."Bonds?"

"Err...right," she blushed slightly but stayed the course, taking a deep breath. "So by the twelth century, witches and wizards were in a dire predicament. They were hunted—ferociously hunted—by muggles, and few could actually stand up to them. Remember, this was at a time when magical schools were fairly new—Hogwarts had just been founded—and magical knowledge wasn't freely shared; in fact, most spells and rituals were coveted, kept secret. Effectively, this meant that most practitioners were very weak: at most, they could brew a potion, cure a fever, maybe even summon a spot of rain for the crops, but if a dozen villagers burst into their hut at night or tied them to a burning stake…"

She trailed off, pursing her lips.

"So what did they do?" Harry asked.

"Well, this is where bonds come in. In order to survive, weaker mages found stronger ones and created a connection called a fealty bond. In essence, they pledged their lives and loyalties to a suzerain in return for protection."

"Didn't work all the time, though, from what I remember," Ron noted.

"That's right. Some of these suzerains—wizard-lords, some called them—well, the power went to their heads."

"They did ghastly things."

Hermione nodded. "And then there were often problems with the bonds themselves. You have to understand: back then, magic was crude. Primal. What we practice today is generally safe, but back then…" She paused, gathering the right words. "Back then, spells came with heavy costs and even heavier repercussions."

"Like what?" asked Harry, who found himself surprisingly invested in the historical tale. But it wasn't just him. Through his ears, the ancient god listened as well. The magic of these wizards was primitive and crude, just as the girl had said, but the roots were the same. Variants of bonding spells had been used since the time of the first altars, when humans had discovered a way to interact with the monsters they would later call gods, offering blood in exchange for power. But it was a reciprocal relationship, a feedback loop. For the more humans offered, the stronger a being could become, which then gathered more followers and more offerings. On a historical level, these elements could grow exponentially. By Teutates' time, the most renowned gods were virtually untouchable; the only way to destroy them was to erode their base. Which the Romans had successfully done.

Now, Teutates would need to recreate his base from null. It would take time. But he was a patient god. He had slept through centuries; what was a few more years? His plan was already in the makings, and the first stone—the one that would launch an avalanche—was right here, right in front of him, enthusiastically sharing details of a past she knew so little of.

She was a capable girl. She had her faults, but that was to be expected. She was only human, after all.

Hermione, blissfully unaware of the plans she was destined for, was explaining the nuances of old bonding spells. It was obviously a fascinating subject for her. She spoke lively, waving her hands, her eyes lit with passion. She kept glancing in Harry's direction. He smiled back at her, nodding approvingly, making her preen.

"There were times when, in order to fuel these spells, sacrifices were necessary," she gushed. "Animal mostly, but human as well. However, even blood didn't make rituals foolproof. On the contrary, they could fail, backfire, and become so complicated that not even the Founders could have predicted the outcome. In one particular case, a suzerain bonded his followers so tightly, that when he choked on a chicken bone and passed, the whole group went with him. _Poof!"_ she giggled. "Two dozen people, gone just like that."

Ron stared at her like she was crazy. "Hilarious," he said. "So are you telling us that if Dracie kicks the bucket, then dumbo and dildo go with her?"

"Mmm," Hermione shrugged. "Probably not. Magic's come a far way. And besides, this is all highly speculative. I _could_ be completely off the mark here..." she paused. When no one agreed, she smiled toothly. "So, yes, it's _possible_ that Ron's right and they are just—ah— _fucking."_

Harry had to swallow and look away to hide the effect those last few words had on him. When he was able to control himself, he asked, "But _why?_ I mean, assuming you're right, what would the Malfoys gain from such an accord?"

Hermione shrugged again. "Only they can really say. Maybe the Malfoys paid the Crabbes and Goyles for their children. Maybe it was part of a plan; they were supposed to act like bodyguards or something as she grew up. She is, after all, the sole Malfoy heiress. The line ends with her."

"Bodyguards?" Ron's eyebrows went up in disbelief. "Those two as _bodyguards?_ You're joking. I'd rather have one of Hagrid's Skrewts!"

"And _that's_ why bonding magic is so rare these days," Hermione replied, airly. "Too many variables. If something can go wrong—"

"—it will," Harry finished, and then glanced over the wall, letting the topic lapse. Below, he could make out the Slytherin group packing up. The swarm had been taken care off, and now the students hurried to escape, seeking the warmth of their common room's hearth. Night had come suddenly, it seemed, heralded by a stream of stars. Already they twinkled above, blue and white, distant and cold, like chips of glacial ice. It was going to be an early winter, thought Harry. He wouldn't be surprised if the first snows came down in November.

"Umbridge," Ron suddenly broke the silence and pointed to his left, where a pinkish blob was rapidly moving in their direction.

Harry made his decision instantly. He almost smirked at how easy this was turning out to be. The heavens were on his side. "We'll split up," he told Ron. "You go down, and Hermione and I will circle around, meet you back at the common room later."

"Wait," Hermione suddenly protested. She had paled, white as snow. "I think—"

"There's no time," Harry cut her off. "We have to go."

Ron was already moving away when he took her hand. It was cold and she trembled under his touch.

Harry hid his smirk well. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, his voice remained steady. "Let's go," he said again, before pulling her down into the darkness of the nearest corridor.

* * *

 **I know, I know, this took a terribly long time and it's not even up to the smut. Mea culpa, friends!**

 **Now, since there's been quite the interlude, please don't hesitate to say if you see a mistake, inconsistency, or if something breaks the flow. Also, deep thanks to those of you who PM'd over the months regarding the status of this story; means a lot.**


End file.
